The day I was born was the final match of the 10th FIFA world cup, in Munich, Germany. Perhaps my mother didn’t care about soccer, she didn’t care about Germany or the Netherlands, the finalists.  She was a beautiful young woman, a mother of a five years old boy. My mother was a graceful lady. She loved reading about history, myths and stories of ancient heroes and heroines. Perhaps it was a reason, she knew about Semiramis, the legendary queen of Lydia’s Babylon gardens who have ruled the mighty Assyrian Empire. A mythical woman who was born from a Goddess named Derceto and raised and cared for by doves. 

Perhaps it was an afternoon in July that my mother went to the hospital to give birth to her second child, me. My father was on a work trip a thousand mile away from her, that far he couldn’t be with his wife in one of the neediest moments of her life. Perhaps, my mother called her sister, my aunt, to be with her in those painful hours. Perhaps, my granny took care of my brother all those three nights. It took a few hours until early morning of the day after that my mom held her baby girl. A newborn with velvety black hair, pink skin, and a dimpled chin. Perhaps, she was excited to see how beautiful and healthy her baby was. She won the nine months battle that morning. Perhaps she was sleeping in the hospital when Germany beats Netherlands by two goals. 

Perhaps, my mother had a dream for me, that day when she saw me for the first time. A dream wrapped with fears and hopes for me being her daughter and for my new world. She named me after Semiramis. Perhaps she wanted me to be brave as her favorite heroines who fights for her life and the life of her family, and her empire to eliminate abomination and tyranny. My mother was vigorous and full of energy, perhaps Semiramis was her role model.

My father came back home a few days later to see her little baby and her beloved wife. When he officially registered my birth, my father missed the word “mis” and named me Samira, a word with a different definition. Perhaps my mother was not happy with that. I was registered in my new world by an incomplete, wrong name. 

 It was in September 1980, the first day of my school. The day I was introduced to society for the first time to learn how to survive in a bigger much bigger world than my mother’s arms. Perhaps my mother still hoped for me to be brave and strong as Semiramis for years to come. 

I wish I asked my mother if she confirmed all my guesses and perhapses about the first days of my life. I wish I asked her if she saw anything interesting about Semiramis in her Samira. I never asked her. I never knew. I will never know. She’s gone!